The Untold Stories of the 74th Annual Hunger Games
by PercyJacksonTheAwesome
Summary: Ever wondered what was happening to the other tributes during Katniss and Peeta's first Hunger Games? It's all right here! Every tribute, every story, every secret, every love. Read the untold stories of the 74th Annual Hunger Games.


**A/N: Alright, I need to say some things. First, I know I should be updating my Avengers fics. But I had to write this. Second, there are some things you should know about this story. I will be writing from the perspective of EVERY tribute from the 74th Hunger Games except Katniss and Peeta. And each character's perspective will be split into three parts: The Reaping, The Capitol, and The Games. Some will be much longer than others. And I've done a bunch of research; I've tried to get all information as accurate as possible. Oh, and they will NOT go in order by district, OR by how long they last, sorry. **

**So, tell me what you think! I'm honestly interested to hear what you have to say.**

**~PJA**

District 3: Noah: The Reaping

The Reaping is always my least favorite day of the year, even before I was eligible to compete. I never liked watching the kids of my district picked to enter the Hunger Games. It upset something in me that I normally tried to push down.

Most days, I just work at the technology office I had been forced to work at since I was twelve, minding my own business and not thinking about the Games. In doing so, I had become extremely good with technology, possibly even better than men twice my age. My parents had always praised me on my talent; it helped bring in the income, to put food on the table. It was all they cared about. Now, we don't have living situations as bad as, say, District 12, but it still wasn't good. Normally I would just work, come home, not speak to anyone else.

But today is not a normal day.

You can tell it's not normal by the way people act. People talk in hushed tones and avoid eye contact with others. No one wants their family to be the one to have to go through that tragedy. No one wants to bring hard feelings to that family, so no one makes eye contact.

My part on this day begins somewhere in the middle of the day. We weren't allowed to work today, so I was left to tinker with little technological devices at home, slowly going crazy with anxiety. It was probably hours later when I had to dress up in my best clothes to head over to the Reaping. I really, really do not want to go. But I know I have to, or else the Peacekeepers will come and find me. So I reluctantly follow my parents toward the Justice Building, where the Reaping is always held. My parents drift off toward the side, where all the parents stand and watch in fear, praying it is not their child who is picked.

I stand in line for the finger prick, barely feeling it when it is my turn. I make my way into the sea of other fourteen-year-old boys, waiting, like the rest of them. Everyone's faces are sad, upset, worried. Everyone is hoping it won't be them. But we all know that there will be two unlucky people who won't be feeling the relief when this Reaping is done and over with.

Then, I see people exiting the Justice Building and taking seats outside on the stage. I recognize most of them. One of them is the mayor, who I see around a lot. Around four of them are past victors of my District, District 3, who I _don't_ see around a lot. The victors like to keep to themselves, I think, after what they've seen in the arena. Although, I do know one thing about them. Every single victor from District 3 has won the games because of intellect and wit, not because of force or strength. That's something to tuck into mind.

The last one I know I've never seen before, but I know they are the escort from the Capitol. It's a woman, dressed in some ridiculous, insanely colorful outfit that no one from this district would ever be caught dead wearing ever; not that we could ever _get _something like that here.

The escort walks over to the microphone in the middle of the stage. "Welcome," she says, as if she needs to get our attention. We're already dead silent. "It is my genuine pleasure to be selecting the tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games." She acts like she's expecting applause, cheers, or something, but she gets nothing. Regardless, she moves on.

"I know you all are excited to get this show on the road, but first we must watch a film brought to you all the way from the Capitol." This lady sounds much more excited than she should, especially for this. We watch this stupid video every year, and I hate it. It just reminds us why we have to watch some of our own from our district get killed on national television every year. But no one says anything as the video is played on the huge screen by the Justice Building.

When the short film has ended, the escort looks just as excited as she was beforehand. She begins to talk into the microphone again.

"I don't know about you, but I just love that film," she says, almost making me roll my eyes. "Now, ladies first."

She leaves the microphone and walks on her ridiculous high heels to one of the glass balls on the stage. Trying to be dramatic, she leaves her hand lingering just inside the ball for a moment, then plunges it deep inside. She takes out a slip, and then her heels _click-clack_ back to the microphone. She unfolds the slip, and her mouth opens to read the name of the unlucky lady.

"Mailey," she reads simply and loudly.

All heads turn towards the accused, who is a tall, lean, thirteen-year-old girl with long, reddish-brown hair, blue-green eyes, and a long face. She looks extremely nervous and terrified as she ever so slowly makes the dreaded walk from her spot in the crowd and up onto the stage next to the too-peppy escort.

"Wonderful! What a lovely young lady to have as tribute. How old are you, darling?"

The girl, Mailey, looks extremely nervous and fidgety on the stage. She doesn't answer the question.

"Come on, darling, don't be shy."

For some reason, a tinge of anger bubbles up in me as I want to slap her and her stupid Capitol accent. Just leave the poor girl alone! Can't you tell she's feeling absolutely miserable?

Mailey finally answers, in a small voice. "Thirteen."

The escort seems excited. "Oh, a young one! You look quite the fighter for thirteen, now don't you?"

Of course, we can all tell this is obviously crap. But we don't say anything to the idiot escort.

She turns back to the microphone. "And now for the boys." She clicks her heels as she walks to the boys' glass ball, and my heart rate begins to speed up. My name is in there what, ten times? I can't exactly remember. But I do know that the number of slips with my name on there number into the double-digits, and I really do not like those odds; they're not really in my favor. As her hand reaches into the ball and pulls out a slip, I silently pray in my head that it's not me. When she unfolds that slip of paper and her mouth opens up, the only thing I'm thinking is for it to please not be me stuck up on that stage...

"Noah."

My heart drops into the lowest pit of my body. That's me. It's me. I'm the tribute. I'm sure my horror is plain on my face as everyone turns to look at me. I know I need to head up to that stage, despite all parts of me not wanting to. I'm stuck to the spot; I can't move. Not until the kid behind me gives me a shove forward. It's then that my legs seem to realize that they can still walk, and begin the walk of death to the stage. I can hear a woman crying in the crowd behind me, and I know it's my mother. I don't look back at her, for fear I will break down at the sight. From what I've seen in the past Hunger Games, I can't risk that. Nervousness is plausible, though Careers may see me as an easy target, but breaking down is unacceptable.

The escort beckons me to the stage, which I reluctantly climb up, standing to the side of her.

"Now, what a handsome man you are! How old are you, darling?"

I push the fact that she called me darling to the back of my mind. With less hesitation than Mailey, but still with hesitation, I mutter, "Fourteen."

"Fourteen! And that handsome! Those looks will get you far in the Games. Now, both of you, shake hands."

I turn to face Mailey, who looks even more terrified than me. I can see the terror in her eyes. She looks like she doesn't have a clue in the world about what to do. As I take her warm hand in mine and shake it, I attempt to give her a look that says, "I will try to help you through this," but I'm not sure it shows through my extreme terror.

The escort turns toward the gathered congregation of gathered citizens.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a big round of applause for this year's tributes from District Three, Noah and Mailey!"

Of course, no one applauds. No one utters a word. It's completely silent. And after a few long moments of that uncomfortable silence, a couple of Peacekeepers escort me and Mailey into the Justice Building.

We're taken into separate rooms. I know what comes next. This is when we're allowed to say goodbye to our friends and family. I know I'll only have one visit; from my parents. I never had any friends, or was very social at all. I only ever worked, played with all that technology, and messed around with explosives. A lot of explosives. I know most everything there is to know about explosives. Maybe this'll come in handy during the Games...

But suddenly I hear my door being opened, and a gruff voice saying, "You have three minutes," and the next thing I know, my mother is holding me in a tight embrace.

"Oh, Noah," she says in a soft voice, telling me she's been sobbing her eyes out.

"It's okay, Mom," I say, even though I know with all my heart that it's not.

"Why did it have to be you?" she asks, more to herself than to me.

"I don't know," I say. "Bad things happen to good people, don't they?"

This was intended to lighten up my mother's mood, but I'm not sure it did. She finally lets go of me, and I finally see the state of her. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her face is a splotchy mess. I try to calm her down, which I succeed in for the moment.

I finally turn to my father, who has been standing in the room this whole time. "Noah," he says simply. He's trying not to show emotion. He doesn't show emotion when he's upset and trying to appear strong. "Use that brain of yours. I know you're smart; smarter than a lot of those other kids. Use that to your advantage. Try to survive."

I nod. What else can I do? That's the point, isn't it? To survive?

I hug my father. "I love you, Dad."

He returns the embrace. "I love you, too. Try to win."

It breaks my heart knowing that I have just about no chance, but I say I'll try. I hug my mother again, tell her I love her, and she says she loves me, too. For the remainder of their time, we don't do anything else, for fear one of us will break down again.

When the Peacekeepers come to escort Mom and Dad out, a new round of quick hugs and tears come out, and Mom has to be dragged out. The door slams behind them, and I stare at the place they just were. The tears fall down my face, knowing that was probably the last time I will ever see my parents.

Soon, the Peacekeepers come and retrieve me, and I am brought to the car that will bring us all to District 3's train station. From there we will go to the Capitol to train with the other districts before entering the arena. My stomach twists. I don't want to think about all that blood.

The escort sits between me and Mailey while we sit in the small car, going on and on about all the Capitol luxuries we'll be able to experience while we're there. I look over at Mailey, who's obviously been crying, and I know that will make her look weak for the cameras. I don't know what it is, but I feel something for the girl. I'm not sure whether it's pity, or protectiveness (which is a bit humorous, considering she's at least an inch taller than me), or something completely different; something I've never felt before. I push the last thought out of my mind. Now is definitely not the time for that type of thoughts.

As I try to drown out the escort's talking, I stare out the window, trying to get a good last view of my home.


End file.
